


The Definition of Insanity

by vega_voices



Series: Sleeps with Butterflies [4]
Category: CSI, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vega_voices/pseuds/vega_voices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The tone in his voice made her bristle. It made her feel like a school girl with a crush even though he was the one leading her on. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Definition of Insanity

**Title:** The Definition of Insanity  
 **Series:** [Sleeps with Butterflies](http://vega-voices.livejournal.com/tag/looking%20glass)  
 **Author:** [](http://vegawriters.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://vegawriters.livejournal.com/)**vegawriters**  
 **Fandom:** CSI  
 **Pairing:** Sara/Grissom  
 **Rating:** Mature  
 **Timeframe:** Just post _Burden of Proof_  
 **A/N:** This is part of the Sleeps with Butterflies series and holds all of the warnings associated with this series.  
 **Disclaimer:** I don’t own, don’t claim to own, although I wish I could have a hand in writing them. Seriously. Please don’t sue me. Hire me instead.

 **Summary:** _The tone in his voice made her bristle. It made her feel like a school girl with a crush even though he was the one leading her on._

She’d been standing outside for a good ten minutes before she found the courage to knock. Instinct told her she could just pull out her key, open the door, and he’d be on the other side, waiting, but it was a bad idea for her to be here. Rumor had it he had a new girlfriend. If Catherine was to be believed, she was a dominatrix who ran a fetish club. Sara had looked her up. Lady Heather of Lady Heather’s Dominion. Sara could never hold a candle to her. Anyway, what about Hank? Yeah, Hank who hadn’t called back yet, not after Catherine had left that finger on the table and ruined the date.

No, this was a bad idea, to want back into his life like this. But because he’d sent her a damned plant with that little line of his – _From Grissom_ – she was here, wanting him to kiss her and hold her and so what if when she woke later, sore and sated, she’d regret everything. Her inner voices reminded her she was a grown woman, she knew better than to do this. Her heart told them to shut up.

He answered when she knocked. Shy and antsy, he stepped back to allow her entrance to the condo. It was sterile, yes. Cool. But the endless butterfly displays always made her smile. She loved the shelf that was filled only with Shakespeare. The office, with the experiments and cases might be his home, but this was his sanctuary. Here, he could be more than the Bug Guy.

“From Grissom?” She found herself asking, holding up the note. The plant was in her car. “You think a plant is going to get me to stay?”

“It got you talking to me.” He stared at her. She stared back. The few feet between them felt like miles and she wanted to flee, to pack her car and head back to San Francisco. Maybe Doug had broken up with that yoga instructor and she’d forget about the heart that she’d be leaving here, bleeding and beating on Gil’s floor.

She took a breath and leaned back against the door, partly for security and partly as an invitation. Her hands were behind her back, exposing her chest and neck to him. He could take her and she wouldn’t fight. She never did. Because under the hurt and the cycles of abuse she still hadn’t broken, she loved him. Worse, he loved her. And neither of them knew what to do with how they felt. But, when he approached her and kissed her, like she could see he wanted to, it would only be more painful to face each other later.

She had to go. She had to say thank you for the plant and promise not to leave – because really she could never leave him – and run. Run back to her apartment and not to Doug. She had to finally stand on her own because then she could stare Gil down and make him deal with their broken hearts. “I’ll make you a deal,” she found herself saying.

“Okay.”

“I’m going to turn and walk out of here before we do something stupid.” He was moving closer. She couldn’t do this if he touched her. “And in return for that, you’ll start communicating better with me at work and we’ll get through this and …” his hand grazed her arm and she shook her head. “Don’t, Gil. Please. Stop!” Stop he did. It was an instant safe word, one born of his inherent respect for women and their own power dynamics in bed. He’d never move forward, not once she’d uttered the word, not until she gave him permission. So he pulled back, turned away, and walked into his living space. She stayed at the door.

“I don’t know what to do about this, Sara.” The tone in his voice made her bristle. It made her feel like a school girl with a crush even though he was the one leading her on. He was the one sending plants and showing up at her door and breaking her in two while she was trying to stay whole. Logic demanded she take that leave of absence or quit. But “the lab needed her” and that was his stupid-ass way of saying he needed her. That he wanted her near him even if it broke them both.

“Life was a lot easier in San Francisco,” she said softly. “You know, back when there was an end to us. Before things seemed so … long term.” She stared at the floor while she spoke, hating how true the words were. For all the chaos with Dan, for all the promises he’d made and the desire for her to go to Vegas with him, there had been an end point, a safe place where they could just communicate through email. Where she could tease him with naughty pictures across the internet and neither of them had to worry about long-term implications. He didn’t reply and she didn’t know what else to say.

“I don’t want you to leave, Sara,” he finally said.

She raised her head and shrugged. “Here? Right now? Or the lab?”

“Both.”

A pause. She needed to go. It would be healthier for her to go. But instead they just stared at each other until she walked across the living room to sit on his coffee table. “I’m not staying,” she said softly.

“Right now, or the lab?”

“Now. I won’t leave the lab. Not yet. I’ll give you a chance to change.”

He reached out and touched her cheek and she leaned into the caress. He had such big, comforting hands. “Sara …” he whispered, that gentle whisper, and she gave in. Her hormones and her heart demanded she make contact. He was an idiot but she wasn’t any better and she moved from the table to his lap, meeting his lips with all the anger and pain she’d been feeling since the last time they’d come to each other for a comfort fuck. His hands calmed her. It was slower than their usual couplings, softer, and she knew he was sorry for his inability to communicate.

His hands moved under her shirt and she lifted her arms, giving him access to move the offending garment. She unzipped her sports bra while his hands worked the button on her jeans. His fingers slipped down, through the coarse hair between her legs, and she arched back, giving him better access.

They never spoke during these couplings. To speak meant to ruin the moment, to potentially address that what they were doing was a healthy relationship choice. They communicated with touches and tugs and he loved to pull her hair to put her where he wanted her. She moved to her knees, sliding between his, and he leaned back, letting her loosen his pants and pull his cock free. Her lips touched the tip in a kiss before she opened her mouth and took him in, nipping and applying pressure just the way he liked. His hands guided her head and when he was close, he tugged her hair and she rose and he pulled her jeans down her legs, just far enough to give them the access they needed.

She was on the pill but he still opened the side table drawer and pulled a condom free. She didn’t argue but did help him to roll the latex into place and then took her place above him, riding him. Her short nails dug into his shoulder. He gripped her hips. He shouted when he came. She just whimpered and put her head onto his shoulder and bit her lip. At least he still held her.

“What are we doing, Gil?” She asked when she had caught her breath.

He paused, his arms still around her, but she could feel the catch in his breathing. “I don’t know, Sara.”

She wanted to ask him to dinner. She wanted something more than groping and fucking on one of their couches. If the dance continued as per usual, he’d say they couldn’t do this again. He never asked her to stay, she never tried. It would cross that damned line they’d set up. The line they crossed every time he touched her and she gave in. She had to leave before he said anything else.

Abusive cycles continued in ways she hated to acknowledge. Because this time she was doing it to herself. He’d stop if she asked him to. But even this was better than loving him from afar.

“I’d better go.” She felt him hold her tighter, just for a second, and knew that what was happening was confusing to him too.

“Stay,” he whispered. “I don’t know what’s happening here, but stay. This time.”

She sat back and looked into his eyes and from somewhere, found a reserve of strength she wasn’t sure she still had. “No, Gil. No.” A breath. “I stay and then what? This shouldn’t have happened and you aren’t ready for what it would mean if I did stay.” He stared at her and then nodded. She was right and for once, he was accepting it. She wanted to tell him to court her again, to sweep her off her feet, to keep sending vegetation to the office. Instead she kissed him and stood, dressing as quickly. He didn’t walk her to the door. She didn’t want him to.

When she started her car, it took everything in her to turn left and head back to her apartment and not right and take off toward San Francisco. This had only made it worse, had only reinforced that they didn’t know what to do or how to accept their history. And in just a few hours, she was going to see him again.

What the hell was she doing?


End file.
